We think of time as linear, something that passes by and never comes around again. I don't know if it's wrong to think of time this way -- or if it's wrong to think of anything any way, really. But I can't help but mark the passage of a year as another notch on an ever-expanding timeline: today is the anniversary of the day we moved to England, and we begin another year in our life here.
The leaves outside our windows are turning yellow again, and the mornings have that crispiness that washes over me with a wave of nostalgia. Autumn is England's truest season, and as my ever-growing collection of scarves comes back out, with thicker sweaters and boots, I have the strongest memories of Autumns past. Maybe it's because memory is so powerfully associated with smell?
My dear aunt, Mom's big sister, died on Friday enveloped in music and family and love. Death seems to gently wrench life right back into perspective. I am listening to music and watching the leaves and smelling apples and thinking about how time slips by.